


The Accusation of Sherlock Holmes

by HolmesianDeduction



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Accusation, Gen, James Moriarty - Freeform, Post Great Hiatus, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesianDeduction/pseuds/HolmesianDeduction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are summoned to the Diogenes Club, where Mycroft makes a startling accusation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Accusation of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heliotropepjs](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=heliotropepjs).



            Sherlock Holmes perched, not unlike a gargoyle, upon his favourite wicker armchair, long, slender limbs folded in on themselves in a posture that was more feline than anything else.  This contradiction in appearances was something that John Watson had become used to since he began living with the detective.  Today, however, Holmes seemed unusually agitated, his usually cool hazel eyes ablaze with activity.  When asked, however, the detective merely gestured to a half-folded sheet of paper on the table.  Flinching, as even his friend’s swift, irate gestures could be wielded as weapons, Watson carefully took the note into his hands and read over it.

            _My dear brother_ , it began, and Watson had to stifle a groan—no wonder Holmes was so agitated.  Contact from Mycroft generally had that effect on the detective.  Sighing, he skimmed the rest of the letter, which requested Holmes’ presence, not at Whitehall, but at the Diogenes Club, as soon as possible.

            “Unofficial business.”  Holmes pronounced dryly, making his friend keenly aware of how closely he had been watching him read.

            “A personal matter, then?”  Watson folded the letter carefully before setting it on the table and looking at the other man expectantly.

            Holmes shrugged and rose to his feet in a single fluid movement.  “Or a highly sensitive one.”

            It was to Watson’s credit that he had never before questioned Holmes’ explanations, but, Holmes supposed, it was a matter of time before he did.

            “What kind of matter?”

            Holmes shot his friend a look, and Watson cringed inwardly at his crisp response.  “I do not pretend to read my brother’s mind, my dear Watson.”

            Allowing this, Watson said nothing, but gave his companion a reproachful look that the other either did not see or else ignored completely.

 

            The ride to the Diogenes Club was, at best, chilly, at worst, stagnant and rotting from the inside out with the silence that permeated the inside of the cab.  Holmes was unusually silent, his bright hazel eyes darting around at the scenery outside while, hands folded across his lap, Watson watched in a puzzled, somewhat perturbed haze of quietude.  Upon arrival, Holmes breezed through the doors and into the club, purposefully rustling his coat and making what, in the silence of the Diogenes Club, was quite a racket, his gaze daring anyone to stop him, even as his friend watched on in muted horror.

            The immediate effect of Holmes’ conduct was that a harried-looking doorman ushered the two men up the stairs to Mycroft’s private quarters in record time, and Watson silently consoled himself that this must have been Holmes’ intent, but a quiet part of him knew better and chided him for his turning a blind eye on the situation.

            Mycroft Holmes was looking out the window as they entered, leaning an arm against the window’s frame in a posture that was, to Watson, almost eerily familiar.

            “Back on the cocaine, Sherlock?”

            From behind, Watson saw Holmes’ back stiffen, his usually ruffle-proof feathers disturbed by his brother’s off-hand observation of his condition.  “Mycroft.”  The younger Holmes’ enunciation of his brother’s name was edged with steel and venom, the effect of which rolled off of the older man’s back, but made Watson’s insides twist painfully inside of him.

            _How did I not see it?_

            Still not turning, Mycroft added, almost as an afterthought, “Doctor Watson, do sit down.  You’ve been working yourself half to death again with that practice of yours, haven’t you?”

            Not bothering to even ask how he knew – Mycroft _always_ knew, just as his brother did – Watson gratefully accepted the seat, allowing Holmes to remain standing, as the doctor knew that he would until, and possibly still after, his brother was seated.

            Eventually, the stalemate was somewhat resolved for the time being, and Watson found himself one point in a rather lop-sided triangular formation in which information about all manner of crimes and political predations and organised devilry travelled primarily across one axis, leaving him to try and make sense of it all on his own with occasional comments and questions tossed his way by one Holmes or the other.  Finally, Watson had enough and cut in on the conversation.  “But what does it _mean_?”

            It was Mycroft who spoke up first.  “What it means, Doctor Watson, is that my brother’s dear friend Professor Moriarty may not be as dead as we thought he was.”

            “ _Nonsense_.” Holmes’ lip curled slightly, not unlike, Watson noted to himself, a child being reprimanded by an adult.  “Professor Moriarty is dead.  He went into the Falls—”

            “And so did you.”  Mycroft shot his brother a knowing look.  “And here you are.”

            Holmes said nothing.

            “Tell me, Sherlock.”  Mycroft’s tone took on an edge of accusation that set the hair on the back of Watson’s neck on end.  “Did you _see_ Professor Moriarty die?”

            “He is _dead_.”  Holmes pressed his lips tightly together.

            “Did you witness it?”

            Holmes glared at him, and shuddering, Watson found himself leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

            “Did you witness, with your own eyes, Sherlock, Professor James Moriarty’s death?”

            Holmes remained silent, looking for all the world as if he should like to throttle the other man.

            Quite suddenly, Mycroft stood up, and Holmes jolted to his feet immediately, hissing between his teeth with uncharacteristic vehemence.  “He is _dead_ , Mycroft."

            “Is he?”  Mycroft looked unconvinced.

            Watson pursed his lips.  “Why _wouldn’t_ he be?  Surely if he were still alive, he would have had his revenge by now!”

            “Precisely!”  Almost immediately, Holmes was at his side, his slender fingers gesticulating somewhat wildly.  “Professor Moriarty is _dead_!”

            “On the contrary, my dear brother,” Mycroft wielded the endearment like a weapon, “I propose to you that Professor Moriarty was never alive.”

            “Inconceivable!”  Watson spluttered, his indignation rising in his cheeks at the accusation.  “Completely impossible!  Isn’t that right, Holmes?”

            Sherlock Holmes said nothing, his lips drawn tight in a thin line, his eyes narrowed.

            “Holmes?”

            Finally, the detective spoke in a low, even tone that even managed to rivet Mycroft’s attention to him.  “Professor James Moriarty is _dead_.  He died at the Reichenbach Falls.  I left him there to rot.  That is all there _was_ , and all there ever _will_ _be_.”

            Spitting the last words on the floor between them, Holmes spun on his heel and left Watson standing there, mouth agape as he looked helplessly at Mycroft, who only shook his head and went back to the window.

            “You had better catch back up with him, Doctor Watson, or he might leave you behind.  He’s not entirely well, my brother.  Not entirely.”


End file.
